


The Lights Are Bright (But They Don't Blind Me)

by tonystarkssnipples



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:12:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3244199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tonystarkssnipples/pseuds/tonystarkssnipples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At a bar called Haig's, photographer Steve Rogers listened to Tony Stark play guitar and sing a song. Two years later, he's hired to photograph the now famous musician. </p><p>Turns out Tony is quite a douchebag and Steve has a stick so far up his ass it tickles his brain. The two are oil and water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lights Are Bright (But They Don't Blind Me)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a birthday gift for Gina (hello-shellhead)  
> Original lyrics written by Renee (avengersasssemble)

Haig’s was Steve’s favorite place; coffee-shop during the day turned bar at night. It was truly a magical place. Whenever Bucky got him some work—which was starting to happen more frequently, thank god—he’d come here in the afternoon and edit the photos he’d taken. At night, he’d come to let loose, have a few beers with some friends, and unwind after a tough day of realizing he was now out of college and in The Real World.

That, as it turns out, was why he was there. He grabbed a beer from Jemm, the bearded owner who knew all of the regulars by name, and searched for a seat. It was a Wednesday and he’d had the kind of day that warranted one or two beers. He found himself a seat close to the makeshift stage set up for open mic night. He would _not_ drink more than necessary tonight.

Being the photographer he was, the entire night was spent focusing on the things wrong with the staging. The lighting was unflattering to the performers; most of their outfits didn’t match what they were portraying; and, most horridly, the performers _kept looking down._ Steve was no expert on stage direction, but he was pretty sure that the audience weren’t supposed to be looking at the top of your head while the performer looks at a notebook.

He was about to get up and leave—he might have a bit of a temper when he drank, so what?—but then a performer took the stage that simply seemed different from the rest, if only from the confidence he emanated. The new guy had a bad case of bed-head and was dressed like a bit of a bum, but in the way Bucky dressed like a bum. In a way that worked. Light bounced off the two shiny rings in Tony’s left ear, leaving little dots on the stage floor.

“You know who I am,” he said, in leu of introduction. Steve rolled his eyes. Turns out this guy was just another one of those self righteous—

_“I'm here and I'm waiting_  
_The darkness is surrounding  
_ _And its suffocating_

_“You've made me afraid of myself  
_ _Afraid of what I'd become_

_“I never thought I'd feel this way again_  
_When the thoughts come creeping in_  
_I'm scared, oh I'm scared_  
_But you're never there  
_ _Oh you're never there_

_“And here I thought I could look up to you_  
_Someone to love me, someone who_  
_Would never leave their own son to die  
_ _But Daddy, I guess we all learn how to fly_

_“Now that Mama's six feet under_  
_I’m alone and left to wonder_  
_What you are and what you do_  
_Hiding behind the door; your shouts like thunder_  
_Love her; love me_  
_Help head; help heart  
_ _Keep me from falling apart_

_“I never thought I'd feel this way again_  
_When the thoughts come creeping in_  
_I'm scared, oh I'm scared_  
_But you're never there  
_ _Oh you're never there”_

Steve was not musically “in tuned”. He couldn’t tell you what instrument was being played during a song on the radio and he couldn’t tell notes apart from each other, but he knew a good musician when he heard one. There is a distinct difference between a singer who can carry a tune and hit the notes nicely, and a singer who has a _voice._ This performer, whose fingers were dancing across the guitar strings like they were created to do just that, had a voice. He ached to reach into his bag and pull out the camera he kept on him at all times, but there were big signs informing patrons that there was to be No Photography in bright red lettering.

_“I never thought I'd feel this way again_  
_When the thoughts come creeping in_  
_I'm scared, oh father I'm scared_  
_But you're never there  
_ _Oh you're never there”_

Steve was so mesmerized that he started clapping wildly a few moments too late. Much of the crowd, singer included, looked at him. He fantasized about turning into an ant and crawling inside of his messenger bag, but when that didn’t happen, he dropped back into his seat and took a few sips of his now warm—and frankly disgusting—beer. When he was done, the placed the pint glass on the bar top and went out the front door.

“I noticed you looking.”

It was freezing outside and Steve was frantically searching through his bag for his keys, when he heard the person speak. He turned to see the singer from earlier leaned against the side of the building, smoking a cigarette.

“Aren’t you cold?” Steve asked dumbly, halting the search through his bag.

The stranger just quirked and eyebrow and repeated himself. “I noticed you looking.”

“You’re a performer. You were on stage. That’s what an audience member does when there is a performer on stage,” Steve rationalized. The man dropped his cigarette to the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his boot.

“True,” he said, before walking closer to Steve. Steve felt a panic shoot through his veins. He wasn’t really in the mood to be murdered tonight. “But there’s _watching_ , which is what a normal audience member does, and then there is looking, which was what you were doing.”

“I fail to see a difference.” Steve returned to searching through his bag for his keys. 

“The difference _is_ that one is there for the aesthetic and one is there for the _experience,_ ” the singer hissed.

“Which is which?” His hand finally came in contact with his keys and he fought the urge to do something stupid like jump for joy or run away from this creepy ass stranger.

“Well, I’ll let you decide that, now won’t I?”

nice to look at, but that didn’t mean he wanted to talk to him, crowded against his old, beat up car. “You’re a very talented musician but that is all I thought of tonight.”

The shorter man—who Steve realized was quite a bit shorter, now that he took a look—rolled away on his heels. “Mmkay. If that’s what you have to tell yourself at night to keep those homo thoughts at bay, then be my guest. My name’s Tony, by the way. I take it that you’re not a regular around here.”

“I come to Haig’s kinda, uh, often but this is my first time at open mic night.”

“Well, obviously. Otherwise you would have known who I am.”

Tony turned and headed back into the bar. Just as he was about to walk through the doors, Steve shouted after him; “Do you need a ride somewhere? It’s cold.”

“Nah. I’m gonna go back in and do a few more songs.”

Steve _ached_ to follow. Any chance to hear this guy sing again, he’d take it. But then he would feel obvious and desperate and that was not something he needed. He shoved his key into the door and unlocked it before jumping in, turning his car on, and putting it in gear. Speeding away from Haig’s, he forced himself not to turn back around to listen to Tony sing again.

* * *

Steve returned to Haig’s every Wednesday night after that but Tony was never there again. It was like he up and left and no one else in the room seemed surprised about it, either. He thought to ask Jemm but never got around to it. After a few weeks, he stopped going.

For the next year or so, once or twice a month he’d go in on a Wednesday night to watch open mic night to see if Tony—if that was his real name and not his back ally stalker name—would play again. He never appeared. Eventually, Steve gave up. He started to wonder if Tony had been a figment of his alcohol induced brain, but he’d only had a beer and not even a full keg could create Tony’s personality from nothing.

“Sooooooo,” Steve grinned, jumping up on the counter. “Got any jobs for me?”

“Yeah. The new camera shoes came in. Sort them by size.” Bucky came from the back room carrying a giant box in his good arm. He let it fall to the ground with a clatter. “That sounded breakable. Oops. They never blame me for broken merch because…” Bucky waved his prosthetic arm around. “I just say it was a delivery failure.”

“Always the honest man, ay Buck?” Steve reached around and grabbed the exacto-knife from behind the desk, using it to cut open the box. “You didn’t answer my question, though. Do you have any jobs for me?”

“Ooo _oooo_ h, you mean like jobs where you take _pictures_ with the _cameras_ that your best friend in the world supplies you.”

“Yes, Buck. Those kinds of jobs.” Steve started three stacks for the three difference sizes of shoe. He wondered how many times Bucky was going to have to demonstrate how to connect a shoe, a tripod, and a camera. He shuddered at the thought; he was much happier stacking boxes than dealing with customers who decided to take up photography on a whim.

“Well…” Reaching into his jacket, Bucky produced a large, sealed folder.

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yeah. This one’s big, Stevie.”

“How _big_?” he asked, skeptically.

Bucky threw his jacket down and adjusted his arm. “Have you heard of that Tony Stark guy? He’s pretty big now or whatever. He’s released two albums in two years, which is kind of a big deal for someone who was previously unknown.”

“Get to the point, Buck.” Steve’s hands ached to open the envelope.

“ _Well_ , I heard word that they needed someone to do a shoot for his tour’s promo posters and I may have sent a few emails, texts, faxes, and letters and landed you the gig.”

“Wait, _seriously_?” Steve shouted, tearing into the envelope. Okay, Bucky had hooked him up with some good jobs over the past few years but this… this was a whole new level of _FUCK YES._ “How mu—”

“Five grand.”

Steve dropped the envelope. “Five thousand American dollars?”

“I done good.”

“You done… great.”

Bucky grinned and bent over to pick up Steve’s info. “You might not want to lose this. It’s got your plane ticket in there. You’re heading out to LA tomorrow morning.”

Sure enough, that’s what the ticket read. Los Angeles. Hollywood. La La Land. Steve Rogers was going out there to photograph a famous musician. “There’s gotta be a catch.”

Bucky used his good arm to shrug. “They just said he’s a handful to deal with. You put up with me so I think you’ll be fine.”

* * *

Steve had become a master of late nights and early mornings, working into the night then waking up to tweak with whatever projects needed attention. More times than not he ended up falling asleep on the couch—like he was now—curled up under a ratty blanket which he refused to replace because then he’d never sleep in his actual bed (not that he did, anyway). Bucky said it had to do with the stick “so far up his ass it tickled his brain.”

For whatever reason, though, it was today—possibly the most important in his professional career—that he found himself sleeping in. When he finally blinked away, he swatted at his phone to check the time. When he realized it was after nine am his blood pressure spiked. His plane took off in two hours and he hadn’t even packed last night.

First things first, Steve Rogers could not focus on anything until he had his morning pee. A girl once dumped him for it. While he peed he put the toothpaste on his toothbrush, then left them leaning on the counter while he washed his hands. As he brushed his teeth, he kicked off yesterday’s jeans, peeled off his day-old underwear, and pulled the dirty jeans back on. He didn’t have time to change. Looked like he was going to LA with nothing but the clothes on his back.

After he rinsed and spit, he ran out of the bathroom, grabbed his camera and messenger bags, and sprinted to his car. He didn’t have time to rationalize which cameras would be best to bring so he brought them all. The damn car keys were buried under the mountains of _crap_ he had in his messenger bag—oh, thank god he hadn’t taken out his travel toothbrush—but he managed to get to them without _too_ much of a hassle (see: a lot of cursing and a kick to the tire).

Traffic. New York City traffic. Nothing was worse in the entire world; Steve was sure of it. While he was sitting in the his car, moving sluggishly through the concrete jungle, he called Bucky.

“You at the airport?” Steve heard Bucky grunt and then a slight crash.

“No. I’m stuck in traffic which is trying my very short patience.”

“Well, I’m working, so what do you want me to do?”

“Since when do you take work seriously?” Steve snapped.

“It’s not that I’m taking it seriously, it’s just that I can’t come flap my wings and come help you.” 

“Fuck you, Barnes.”

“Back at ya, Rogers. Call me when you get to the City of Angels.”

* * *

Eventually, Steve got to the airport, only to find that the baggage check lady seemed to have a vendetta with the world.

“I need to check this bag as fragile.” Steve gingerly placed his camera bag on the scale beside them.

“What’s in there?” she asked.

“As a passenger, I know my rights. I do _not_ need to tell you that.” Jesus, Steve. Just tell her what’s in the damn bag…

“Well, you’re late to your flight—yes, I see your boarding pass poking out of your purse there. You’re panicked and your sweating profusely. Also, the fact that you refused to answer my question…”

Steve knew exactly what she was doing; she was baiting him. Trying to get a rise out of him.

“Look, I know that your job must be horrendously boring and unsatisfying and I know that you must really not want to be here and deal with me right now, but I don’t want to _fucking_ deal with you right now, either. So, can you please just mark my camera bag as fragile? Also, this is a _messenger bag_ , not a purse.”

“See, that’s all you had to say. Camera bag.” She cracked her gum and stuck the stamp on it, unceremoniously throwing it onto the conveyer belt behind her.

* * *

“Are you  _kidding me?_ ” There was an insistent beeping ever since he walked through security.

“Sir, we’re going to need you to step aside.”

Steve reached into his pocket and found… “It’s a gum wrapper. See? A gum wrapper. Now can you please let me get on my plane I’m really _really_ late!”

“Normally we would, sir, but you’re acting distressed and we just want to do a quick pat down.”

Steve groaned. Good lord. He closed his eyes and let the security guards pat him down, making sure he wasn’t hiding anything besides the _lethal gum wrapper._  

“Going commando, ay?” the guard asked.

“May I go now. Please,” Steve hissed.

“Sure. Seem like you’re not hiding any _other_ weapons in your pants.”

Steve cringed. He swore he could kill every single person in this airport and maybe that was the problem.

He finally boarded the plane and took out his computer. Stark had hooked him up with a first class seat, which meant free WIFI. He figured he’d upload some small files to the ‘observations’ section of his blog then answer some emails. Hopefully, but the time he landed, there would be more. There were always questions after he made a post.

However, while he was sitting up in the air trying to figure out which pictures he wanted to put up on his portfolio, he got a sinking in his gut. Tony’s people had seen his work. They knew what it looked like. Steve, however, had _no clue_ who this Tony Stark guy was. He’d never heard of his songs, never heard of his name, never seen a picture of him. Normally that would be a signal, the whole ‘Celebrity I’ve Never Heard of has hired me’ thing, but it didn’t bother Steve; he didn’t have time to keep up with the music scene or read gossip rags. He worked on his photography and he worked for Bucky and he tried to pay off his student loans.

It dawned on him, though, that he should probably at least know what Stark _looked_ like. He’s sure he could find a candid or something from an event. He opened up Chrome and started to Google “Tony Stark” when he was met with a little exclamation point in his WIFI triangle thingy.

“Ma’am?” he asked when a flight attendant passed by.

“Yes?”

“I can’t connect to the wifi.”

The woman gave an apologetic look. “I was just about to make the announcement. The wifi has gone down and won’t be back up for the rest of the flight.”

Oh. “Thank you.”

Looked like he was going into this one blind.

* * *

When Steve got off the plane, there was a man waiting for him with a sign that read S. Rogers.

“Uh, hi. I’m S. Rogers, I think,” Steve said.

“Happy Hogan,” the man greeted, sticking out his hand. “I’m Mr. Stark’s driver. I was told to pick you up and drive you wherever you need to go before the shoot. Is there anything in particular that you want to see while you’re here?” The man didn’t stop talking until they reached the _limo_ and then Mr. Hogan was opened the door and Steve was slipping inside.

Steve waited until Mr. Hogan was in the driver’s seat with the partition rolled down. “Uh, honestly I’d just like to get to a Target. I kind of forgot to bring clothing.”

Mr. Hogan smiled. “A true artist comes to LA with nothing but the clothes on their back. Are you sure you don’t want to shop anywhere a little more high end?”

Steve cringed. “I honestly just need some pajamas and a few pairs of underwear until I get home on Sunday. No need to spend money on that.”

Mr. Hogan didn’t ask anymore questions, just drove off. Los Angeles was amazing and Steve couldn’t tear his eyes away from the window. He was in one of the most famous cities in the world—just because he lived in one didn’t mean going to another was any less special—and he was going to Target. He contemplated asking the driver to take him somewhere else, then remembered that he didn’t really have the money to spend to shop anywhere else.

“We’re here, Mr. Rogers. Would you like me to wait outside?”

“Please call me Steve. And you can come in if you want. You don’t have to but I don’t want you to have to sit in a hot car, Mr. Hogan.”

“Air conditioning. And if I have to call you Steve you have to call me Happy.”

Steve felt a little ridiculous referring to a grown man as ‘Happy’, but if that’s what the man wished to be called then so be it. “Alright, Happy. I’ll be in and out before you know it.”

“Take your time, Steve.”

Steve had been to a Super Wal*Mart. He’d even been to a Super Target. But those were nothing compared to the warehouse that was the Target he was currently standing in. Literally hundreds of people were milling around, pushing carts and swerving around each other in such an easy rhythm it was almost a ballet.

Steve, very unlike a ballet dancer, worked his way to the men’s clothing department. Snagging a few pairs of boxers and the cheapest pair of pajamas he could find, he started towards the cash register. Then, as if out of nowhere, it dawned on him—really dawned on him—what he was in LA to do. He was going to be meeting a celebrity in under two hours and he’d been wearing the same jeans and grungy t-shirt since yesterday. He’d flown across the country and slept in these clothes. Happy _had_ said to take as long as he liked.

With that in mind, he turned back to the clothing department and started to browse. He was never much of a shopper, especially when it came to clothes, but he was filled with the urge to impress whoever this Tony Stark fellow was. This job could lead to bigger things. This could be the turning point for his career. He couldn’t show up in day old grossness.

“Hey, um… you’re dressed very stylishly,” he said, approaching a teenage girl who was indeed dressed very stylishly.

“Ew, perv. You’re like forty. Get away from me,” she snapped, then turned back to giggle with her friends.

“Um, I’m actually only twenty-four. But the reason I was asking was because I have an important job to get to today. I want to make a good impression but I’m on a budget so I came here. I was hoping you could help me?”

“What’s this job of yours?”

“I’m a freelance photographer. I’m photographing promotional shots for Tony Stark’s new tour.”

“Tony Stark. As in _Tony Stark._ ” Finally, he’d caught her interest. “You can’t show up to a job for Tony Stark dressed like _that_. Oh my god, you need help. Guys, we need to help my new friend… I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Oh, Steve.”

“We need to help my new friend Steve.”

Three girls who seemed to be about sixteen huddled around him.

“Sweater,” one of them said.

“No,” another butted in. “He’d get all sweaty.”

“T-shirt is too casual.”

“Tony Stark _breathes_ casual.”

“Well, duh. But have you seen Pepper? That woman is neatly dressed and ready to kill. I’m only going to assume that all of his people are.”

His _people_? Steve was getting a little more than intimidated by the idea of working with this man.

“Uh… jeans?” Steve suggested.

“Yeah, jeans are a pretty safe bet. But not those old man jeans you’re wearing. We need some nice ass huggers,” his original helper announced, leading them to the back of department. “Try these on,” she instructed, thrusting a few pairs of pants at him.

“Uh, okay.”

“And I think we’re going to go with… ah!” she exclaimed, surging forward to grab a blue sweater. “This is going to make your eyes even bluer, if that’s possible. Now c’mon. We haven’t got all day. Let’s go to the fitting room.”

The three girls followed him to the doors and fought their way into the men’s dressing area. Steve assured the woman behind the desk that it was totally okay and they were helping him out. However, once they were in the stall, he remembered that he was missing one very important undergarment.

“Uh… can you turn around for a second?” He felt his cheeks turning red with the embarrassment. He could be arrested if he showed these girls his junk and he was _not_ in the mood to end up in jail today. He’d already had a piss ass time getting here, he didn’t need another run in with the “law”.

Without a word, all three girls turned around. Steve sighed in relief. As soon as he shucked his “old man jeans”, he pulled on one of the pairs of boxers. It wasn’t like he wasn’t going to pay for them, he just would have to do so later. After pulling on the “ass huggers” and the sweater, the told the girls to turn back around.

“Perfection,” the original girl gasped.

“Isn’t the sweater a little… small?” Steve asked, awkwardly pulling at the sleeves that were practically glued to his arms.

“No. That’s how clothing is supposed to fit. I have a feeling you’re a frump master back home. You can’t be a frump master in LA. It’s against the law. Now change back into your frump master clothing and let’s get you paid up and ready to go meet Tony Stark.”

Steve grinned and changed back into his travel clothes. Those, along with the boxers and the pajamas, fit neatly into two bags at the cast register. He thanked the girls again and headed out to meet Happy.

“Hey there. Ready to go meet the big guy?” Happy asked when Steve slid into the backseat.

“Yup. I’m just gonna roll up the divider for a second so I can change. Is that okay?”

Happy chuckled. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing that happened back there while I was driving.”

* * *

The place for the shoot was beautiful. It was the kind of place Steve would have loved to photograph with or without a subject. It was half inside, half outside. An abandoned factory with crumbling walls, slowly growing over with what little nature was left in Los Angeles.

He was walking around, holding his camera up to his eye to find the best places for lighting, when he heard a demanding voice coming from the entrance.

“Nature. You want me touching nature? Like, trees and shit? Fuck this. Who picked this place out?”

“I did,” a fiery red head snapped.

“Yeah, well…”

Holy shit. Steve knew that face. He knew that voice. He’d thought about it for the better part of two years. “Oh my God I know who you are,” he gasped.

“Uh, duh. Everyone knows who I am,” Tony snapped. He reached into the pocket of his jeans and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. Shaking the carton, he pulled one out and stuck it in his mouth. Tony lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply before squinting. “Wait. Wait, no. I _do_ know you.”

“You do?” the red head asked, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and dropping it to the ground, stomping it out with her shoe.

Tony shot her a death glare before bringing another cigarette to his lips and lighting it. “I do. I met him a few years back at Haig’s.”

“The place you used to do acoustic gigs for open mic night?”

“That’s the one. What’s your name, again?” Tony glared at the woman as she pulled the second cigarette from his hands and, once again, dropped it to the ground and stubbed it out with her shoe.

“Steve.”

“Well Steve, this is Pepper. My right hand. And my left hand. And practically every part of me. She does what I can’t do, which is everything but music. We used to fuck.”

“Tony!” she gasped, slapping him on the back of the head.

“What? It’s better to get it all out in the open if this guy is going to be working for me. Jesus woman.”

The woman, Pepper, rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Steve. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Steve. I’m sorry for this one’s monstrous behavior. I wish I could say that’s he’s not usually like this, but he is.” Her eyes followed the shorter man as he walked around the decaying building, instructing people to do various things for him.

“Water. I need water. Preferably the kind that’s not water and is actually vodka,” he shouted to no one in particular.

Yeah, Steve didn’t really like him that much anymore. He’d spent years searching for _this_ guy?

“So, Mr. Stark. I want to start by having you, uh, standing over there. Like… by that wall.”

Tony reached behind his head and pulled off his shirt, throwing it to the side and walking over to the wall. Steve caught sight of the intricate, circular, blue tattoo in the middle of his chest, but didn’t pay much attention to it.

“Uh… I didn’t tell you to take off your shirt.”

“I’m paying you. I do what I want.”

With that, Tony reached into his pocket and lit a third cigarette. “Now take a picture of me in all my glory.”

Steve rolled his eyes but moved closer to Tony, snapping picture after picture. Though half of the pictures were of Tony making rude and crass gestures, Steve figured he had enough material for the promo shots.

“I know I’m beautiful, but I think we’re done here,” Tony said after a few hours. Steve hadn’t even realized the time passing. “Now, where are we going for our date?

“Ex _cuse_ me?”

Tony snorted. “You seem like the kind of guy who wants a Wine and Dine before a fuck. So, where are we going?”

“We’re _not_. I am here to take your picture and then fly back to New York.”

“Maybe. But I’m desperately in need a full time photographer and I prefer that the people working for me be eye-candy.” On his way out, Tony slapped Steve’s ass, causing Steve to almost drop his camera.

“See you around, sweet-cheeks.”

* * *

Steve went back to his hotel room with the intention of showering and going to bed. It had been a very long, very stupid day, and there was that damn three hour time jump to get over. However, with a towel slung low on his hips he stepped out of the bathroom and saw--

“Tony?”

“I don’t like getting blown off,” Tony mumbled without looking up. He was typing away on what Steve assumed was a phone, but really just looked like a translucent screen.

“I didn’t blow you off. I just didn’t want to go out on a date with you. I still don’t. Can you leave so I can get dressed?”

“Don’t mind me.” Tony waved his hand at Steve, still not looking up from his phone. With a shrug, Steve went to his Target bags and grabbed a pair of his new underwear and the pajamas.

He dropped his towel and pulled on the boxers as quickly as he could before mumbling, “I, uh, you can look now.”

“I actually did come here for a reason that wasn’t to look at your package. Yeah, yeah, I peeked.” Steve didn’t even have a chance to react to that before Tony was pushing forward. “Anyway, I was serious when I said I need a photographer for the tour. Someone to catch ‘candids’ of me and stuff so that people can find me. Also, official concert pics and stuff. You in?”

“It’s not that simple, Tony. There’s lawyers and contracts and paychecks and a bunch of other stuff.”

“Do you want to come on tour with me? Get your name known, travel for free, see the fucking world, listen to some good music, and make a lot of fucking money doing it? Yes or no.”

“When you put it that way--”

“That’s the only way to put it, Steve. Plus, you’ll also get my sparkling company.”

Steve hesitated. “I have a job back in New York.”

Tony let out a husky laugh. “You work in your best friend’s camera shop. I’m sure you can take time off.”

“How… did you know that?”

“I’m the one who hired you, my friend.”

“We’re not friends.”

“That best friend of yours is very persistent. He sent Pepper _faxes._ I didn’t know fax machines still existed.”

Steve pursed his lips. “Well, they do.”

“Okay, let’s cut the bullshit. You working for me or not?”

“I’ll have to call my boss.”

“Your best friend.

“Yeah.”

Tony pushed himself off the bed and headed for the door. “I put my number in your phone. Call me when you’ve come to your senses and accept the job and I’ll have someone send over whatever documents you were blathering on about.”

“Okay. I… can you leave so can get dressed?”

“For someone so endowed, you’d think you’d be less modest,” was the last thing Tony said over his shoulder as the door slammed behind him. Steve had the ridiculous urge to cover his crotch even though Tony was already out of the room.

When the full body blush faded he grabbed his phone. Unlocking it, he found a picture of Tony, tongue hanging out, middle finger up, set as his background. Steve rolled his eyes and opened Bucky’s number to send a quick text.

_You up?_

Within seconds the response came. _Duh. I’m waiting for your dumb ass to tell me all about Tony Stark!_

Then his phone was ringing, blasting Ke$ha, courtesy of Bucky downloading and setting random songs as his ringtone. There was a time when he’d change it back to one of the preprogramed tones, but Bucky would just change it again.

“Hey punk,” Bucky greeted before Steve had a chance to say hello. “How’s my starving artist doing?”

“Well, I—”

“Let’s cut the bull. We both know I just want to hear about Tony.”

“So remember that guy at Haig’s? The one who played at open mic night two years ago?”

“The one you still stop by the bar to see if he’s there? Yeah, it’s ringing a bell.”

“Well, there’s a reason he hasn’t been in Haig’s for two years. It’s because he’s been in LA recording two albums and becoming an egomaniac with a tongue piercing and a fixation with grabbing his own crotch.”

There was radio silence for a few moments. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

“Nope. He’s guy-liner trash. I mean, it looks good on him or whatever, but—”

“Holy dick, you still have a thing for the guy.”

“He’s aesthetically pleasing, alright? It’s nothing more than that.”

“Uh-huh. Suuuuuure.”

“I’m seriously, Bucky! He’s a total ass.”

“Whatever you say.”

“I’m serious!”

“If it helps you sleep at night.”

“Stop being an ass.”

“No.”

“Whatever. So I actually called for a reason.” Steve bit his lip, not sure how to proceed.

“You gonna tell me what that reason is?”

“I’m getting to it.”

“Well, how about you spit it out before we’re ninety-five.”

Steve rolled his eyes. Bucky had some fixation with being ninety-five. “Tony offered me a full time position. He wants me to tour with him and take his official concert shots, but also quote unquote ‘candids’ to post anonymously because he’s an egomaniac and want’s people to know where he is without actually _telling people_ where he is.”

“You already mentioned he was an egomaniac.”

“Will you… is this okay? Can you hold down the shop on your own?”

“You’re asking a one armed man to run a business alone? I never knew you were so selfish, Rogers.”

“Buck—”

“I’m _kidding._ Of course you can go on tour with the guy. Maybe I’ll hire that Peter kid who comes in here all the time asking if there’s a job opening.”

“He’s still coming in?”

“Yup. Every few days. He doesn’t come when you’re in because you scared him that one time.”

“It was an accident!”

“You told him that, if he wanted a job, you’d pee on the toilet seat for him to clean up.”

“He was pestering me to see if you were there! I told him you weren’t and he was nagging me to tell him when you were going to get back.”

“You gotta chill. That stick is so far—”

“Up my ass it’s tickling my brain. I know. You’ve told me once or twice.”

“Well, I was getting ready for my nightly shit before I shower and head to bed, so I’ll talk to you later.”

“You’re so disgusting. I’ll see you this weekend.”

“You’re still coming home?”

“I only brought my camera bag and my messenger bag. I gotta pack. Plus, I don’t think his tour even starts for awhile. I don’t know. I have to call him to tell him he was right; I’m accepting the job.”

“My idiot best friend. All grown up and calling celebrities.”

“Goodbye Buck.”

“Goodbye my sweet angel. Dream of me.”

“Go take your shit.”

“Oh, my pants are already around my ankles, bro.”

“Oh my god! Don’t talk to me while you’re on the toilet!”

“Byeeeeeee!”

Steve sighed when the line mercifully went dead. Hesitantly, he scrolled through his contacts and found Tony’s number. Well, it was actually the number of “Boss Ass Bitch with a Foot Long Dick”. His contact picture was of what Steve assumed to be Tony’s naked ass.

It went immediately to voicemail.

“I’m doing something more important than answering my fucking phone. Leave a message or whatever. Beep beep mother fucker.”

Then came the tone and Steve had to leave a message. He wished he’d thought through what he was going to say before he got here. “So, uh… it’s Steve. Steve Rogers. The photographer. I’m calling because I’d, uh… I’m accepting the job you offered.”

The moment he hung up, he got a text.

_I knew you’d take the job_

_How’d you listen to the message already?_ Steve replied.

_You’re such a dope. Why else would you be calling. Unless… GASP! Steve was this a booty call?_

Steve didn’t know how to answer, so he simply responded; _No._

_Damn._

* * *

Steve had never met anyone so obnoxious in his entire life. Holy hell. The tour had been going on for all of two days and he was already prepared to push Tony Stark off of the stage during soundcheck. Steve had honestly considered it multiple times, but then he figured Tony would make a neck brace a new fashion accessory and women would be throwing themselves off of things in hopes to match their “Future Husband.”

If there was anything about this that bothered him more than the innocent girls throwing themselves at Tony unbeknownst to what he was actually like (textbook definition of asswipe), was the fact that Tony knew and was okay with manipulating these women into thinking he cared.

Steve wasn’t going to make it through this damn tour. He wasn’t going to make it through this damn week. Hell, he wasn’t going to make it through the rest of the day.

Steve woke up to, “I need some candids.”

“Jesus! How the hell did you get into my room?” He bolted upright, then covered his naked chest. “What even time is in?”

“Like… 5:30ish.”

“Aren’t rockstars supposed to sleep ’til noon or something?” Steve groaned as he sat up. It was useless to go back to sleep, anyway. His alarm would be going off in a half hour.

“That we are, and I probably will end up doing so. I have yet to go to sleep.”

“What have you been doing? Wait, never mind. I have zero desire to—”

“Fucking.”

“I said never mind!”

“Don’t care. Anyway,” Tony bounced up and down on the bed like an over excited child trapped in the body of a twenty-odd year old man still stuck in his rebellious teenager stage. “Candids, Steve. Candids!”

This was ridiculous. Why in the hell had he thought this would be a good idea? This entire tour was a mistake. For a brief moment he considered heading back to New York and going back to the store and working with Bucky, but that would just be a giant I Told You So from his professors who said he’d never make it as a photographer. “You’re soft,” they’d said. “You don’t have what it takes.”

“Okay, so, what do you want to do for these candids?”

“I don’t know. You’re the ar-tyst!” Tony used a ridiculous accent and, okay, maybe Steve smiled a little. Only a little. “I want my special fans of—where are we?”

“The middle of Massachusetts.”

“Of the middle of Massachusetts to know where I am, what I’m up to.”

“Well… what do you normally do in the morning?” Steve crawled out of bed and pulled on his ratty gray hoodie—a thrift store find that said Stanford, even though he’d never even been to California—and some sweatpants.

“Get drunk. Smoke. Nothing exciting.”

Steve looked at the clock beside his bed. “You want me to take a photograph of you drinking at 5:42 in the morning?”

“Is that… would that be bad?”

“ _Yeah_.” Steve put every ounce of aggravation into the single syllable as he could manage. “Yeah, it might be a bit of a bad idea.”

Tony rolled his eyes. “Well, whether we photograph it or not, I’m going to need to get a drink before we work. You’re _insufferable_ when I’m sober.”

“I refuse to take ‘candid’ photographs of you at the asscrack of dawn while drunk. Sorry, _Tony_ , but you’ll have to find someone else.”

Tony stood up and stood in front of Steve. Though he was physically shorter, Steve felt as if Tony were towering above him. “Look here, Rogers. I pay you, you do what I tell you. Got it? I gave your sorry ass a chance to come on tour with me. You’re a _nobody_ drowning in a sea full of somebodies, thinking you’re superior because you have morals. News flash, fuck-tard. The world doesn’t work that way. I got to where I am today by kissing ass and now I’m the ass to kiss. So why don’t you take that cactus out of your ass and do what your boss tells you to do? Either that, or go back to stocking shelves for your best friend while he busts his ass to get you work you don’t deserve. I’ll meet you in the lobby in ten. And don’t you dare come down dressed like that. God forbid someone sees us, I can’t bare to be in public with anyone looking that atrocious.”

* * *

The lobby was virtually empty. Why wouldn’t it be at the time of day?

Steve was there before Tony. He continuously checked his watch—yes, he still wore a watch even though he could just look at his phone—and Tony was officially 45 minutes late. At the one hour mark, he would leave. Then Tony’s monologue played through his head and he realized he would stay no matter what.

By seven, though, his muscles started to ache, having missed his morning run, and his stomach was growling with his lack of breakfast. Still, he stuck it through. He _had_ to. He refused to give up. He—

“You’re still here?” Tony seemed to appear out of nowhere. The elevator doors had opened. Where had he come from?

“Yeah. You told me to be, so I am.”

“It’s been over an hour.”

“It has.”

“Don’t you have better things to do in the morning.”

Steve was about to open his mouth and defend himself when his stomach let out a low growl of betrayal. “I’m… a little hungry,” he admitted.

“Well then let’s get some breakfast.”

“You… eat breakfast?”

“Well it _is_ the most important meal of the day.” Steve’s stomach growled again. “Anything in particular you’re interested in?”

“I was just going to go to the complimentary buffet this they offer at the hotel.”

Tony let out an over dramatic gasp. “No. I’m treating. We’re going somewhere better.” Before he knew what was going on, Tony’s hand was wrapped around his wrist and he was being dragged to the parking lot. They arrived at a motorcycle.

“You drive this?” Steve asked, running an appreciative hand across the seat.

“Her name is Heather.”

“She’s beautiful.”

“Yeah she is.” Steve looked over to see Tony _gazing_ at his own bike. “I built her myself back in college. Before I, you know, dropped out.”

“College drop-out. Living up to all the stereotypes.”

Tony cleared his throat. “I _believe_ that particular rockstar stereotype is high school dropout. Now, are you going to get on this beautiful piece of machinery, ride bitch, and let me take you to breakfast?”

“They say that a person who has been up for more than twenty-four hours drives at a less efficient rate than a person who is intoxicated.”

“Well, good thing I have plenty of experience driving intoxicated, then.”

It was an out of body experience, getting onto the motorcycle with Tony, but Steve couldn’t bring himself to regret it. It was purely the appeal of riding this beautiful bike, he justified. It had nothing to do with Tony. He still hated the man. Despised him, even. But he wrapped his arms around his waist and buried his face into his neck, and enjoyed the feel of the wind in his hair (metaphorically, of course; he was wearing a helmet).

“A diner?” Steve asked when Tony had finally parked the bike. “That’s you idea of better?”

“I used to come here all the time!” Tony defended. Steve gave him a doubtful look. “Okay, so I’ve never been here before. But the rating seemed good when I looked it up online before bringing you here.”

Steve actively fought to ignore the implications of Tony looking stuff up for him. No, not for him. Tony was getting breakfast and he happened upon Steve in the lobby. Yup.

“Go get us a table. I’ll be in in a minute,” Tony explained, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. After Steve got to the table, he peeked out the window. Tony wanted candids? Candids he’d get. Steve snapped a quick picture of Tony through the glass, making sure not to get the reflection of his decidedly not-civilian grade camera.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” the waitress asked. Steve looked over his shoulder to see Tony walking into the diner.

“Just one moment, ma’am. Tony, is there anything you want to drink?”

“Coffee. Black.” While Tony sipped his coffee he stared out the window, ignoring Steve completely. Steve wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity for Tony’s much desired ‘candids’, so he did what he was trained to do; snapped a photo. Tony turned and stuck out his pierced tongue. “Nyeh, nyeh.” Steve just took another picture of Tony making the childish gesture.

“I need you to create various fake Instagram accounts and possibly a tumblr. You need to regularly update. Reblog and post other pictures of me, so it’s not like you’re my official photographer. When you do take an original, make sure it’s on a different account _every time_ , and make sure to add location. I cannot stress the importance of either of these things. After you post it on one, you can also paste it to others, but make sure that the original post is on an un-original account.”

Steve’s head was spinning. “Yeah. I can do that.

“Also, dates and times.”

“Okay. Got it.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Tony gestured to Steve’s phone. “Get started. Make the first account.”

“The pictures are on my camera. Not my phone. I’ll have to wait until—hey, what are you doing with my camera?”

Tony was currently turning the thing around in his hands, examining it from every angle. Finally he popped the back off and pulled out some wires.

“Oh my god!” Steve shouted. “You can’t just—”

“Calm your tits.”

After some fiddling, Tony seemed pleased. “Phone.”

“Huh?”

“Give me your phone.”

Steve reluctantly pulled it out of his pocket and slid it towards Tony. “What are you going to do?”

Tony answered by ripping the back off and attaching the writes to things Steve didn’t even know existed within his own technology. After a few moments his phone beeped.

“Transfer complete. The pictures are now on your phone.” Tony then reattached all wires to (what Steve assumed to be) the right places. Snapping the back on Steve’s phone, he handed it over. “Now, get to posting.”

Steve rolled his eyes but downloaded Instagram—no Tony, I don’t already have an account—and set himself up.

“stark, period, for, period, life,” Tony instructed. When Steve raised an eyebrow, he rolled his eyes and snatched the phone out of his hands, typing in stark.for.life and hitting Create Account. He picked his favorite of the photos—the one of him smoking outside the diner—and captioned it: “Tony Stark spotted outside Whately diner in MA! #tonystark #tonystarkspotting #tonystarkinma #reactortour #reactoralbum #smoking #cigarette #famous” Then added the address as the location and hit the check mark to post it.

“Put the camera away. If anyone shows up I don’t want them to think it was posed.”

“Oh yeah, wouldn’t want that,” Steve joked, dutifully putting his camera in it’s bad and throwing his coat over it.

Sure enough, before Steve’s French toast even arrived, there was a small gathering of people outside of the diner taking photos through the glass. Steve desperately wished he was back in his hoodie so he could cover his face.

“You know what this looks like, right?” Tony asked, slugging down his third coffee and gesturing for the waitress to come over and bring him more. “A _date_.” He winked. Oh god, please let that not be a picture.

“It looks like two people out for breakfast, Tony.”

“Yeah. Two people out for breakfast _on a date._ ”

“I swear to god.”

Steve looked at his phone and saw that there were at least thirty comments on the photo.

_omg so lucky_  
_TONY I LOVE YOU_  
_i’m so close!_  
_marry me!_  
_check out my latest picture  
_ _this is *legit* guys. he’s actually here._

“And that’s how it’s done,” Tony said with a smirk.

* * *

Steve actually enjoyed his breakfast out with Tony, but when he got back to his room and logged onto his computer to check the headlines, he cringed.

**_Tony Stark with Mystery Man. Exclusive photos._ **

****As if he was being controlled by someone else, he clicked the article and began to read.

_Tony Stark, rockstar playboy, was seen canoodling with a stranger at a rural Massachusetts diner. Stark was photographed outside smoking a cigarette. After the location was posted on an Instagram photo of the event, our source was able to find the star and his beau sharing breakfast. The two seemed to be having a wonderful time, says our informant. Is it only a matter of time before Stark breaks the mystery man’s heart, or is this the one that makes him settle down?_

Steve lunged at his phone. Texting was too slow. He called Tony.

“Ug, what?” he answered. “Can’t get enough of my voice? You should hear it when I moan your name—”

“Tony, can you not be an asshole for two seconds and put out some kind of statement that I’m not your—” Steve choked on the word. “Beau.”

“Who said that.”

“This website.”

Tony honest to god laughed. “Oh my god! You’re so adorable. Nothing I say will make that go away. It’s just part of the job.”

“No, Tony. It’s part of _your_ job. My job is to take pictures of you—”

“And you’re doing a wonderful job.”

“Can you be serious for _two seconds?_ ”

“Well, I mean, I can, but that’s not very much fun, is it?”

“Tweet it, put it on Facebook, I don’t _care._ Make it go away. Or at least clear my name.”

“What’s so bad with being in a relationship with me?”

Now it was Steve’s turn to laugh. “You are such an insufferable asshole!”

“I called you insufferable first.”

“I don’t _care_. Make a statement, make it go away, and don’t contact me unless it’s for a strictly professional reason.” Steve slammed his thumb on the end button, but it wasn’t satisfying enough. He chucked it on the bed. It proceeded to roll off the other end. Awesome.

Then it started vibrating like mad, a series of messages flooding in. He picked it up. He’d set his phone to alert him when Tony tweeted when the tour first started to get updates on what was going on. He unlocked the screen and started reading.

> Earlier today I was spotted at a diner in MA with a work colleague. He has requested to remain unnamed.
> 
> (cont). He, however, is that alone; a work colleague. More specifically, my official tour photographer.
> 
> (cont). He is a very talented artist and it’s a pleasure to be working with him.
> 
> (cont). Attached is one of his promo previously unseen photos for the REACTOR tour and album.

And sure enough, there was one of the photos Steve had taken that day in the warehouse. Tony had even included Steve’s watermark in the lower lefthand corner. It wasn’t one of the ones he had chosen to send to the publisher. This one was a different kind of picture—one that didn’t fit Tony’s “image”.

They had been on a break. Tony had his fingers in his hair, head leaned back. His eyes were closed and the sun was filtering in just right. There was a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Steve hadn’t sent it out because he wanted to keep it to himself. It was a rare moment where Steve saw a glimpse of the person he thought Tony was all these years. 

He wasn’t sure how Tony got it, but he was glad the world got to see it.

* * *

Steve stood backstage and watched as Tony began fellating the microphone. Knowing it was a moment Tony would want to have captured, Steve snapped a picture of it. Over the past month or so, Steve had gotten used to Tony to the point where it wasn’t just tolerating him. Sure, there were times when he still fantasized about hitting him with the tour bus, but he’d learned to suppress those urges.

And maybe Steve lived for the ‘candid’ shoots. Those were his favorite moments. He would never  tell Tony when he was going to get a picture, so they’d be walking around and all of a sudden Tony would look a certain way that Steve just _had_ to document it. Then, of course, Tony would turn around and grab his crotch or flip him off and Steve would take another picture of that ‘moment’. There was an entire folder on his computer titled ‘Stark being an asswipe”. As time went on, he frequented that folder more and more.

“How y’all doin’ tonight?” Tony barked. Everyone screamed. Steve rolled his eyes. “Well, put your hands together, you know this fucking song.” There was some screeching guitar and flashing lights and Tony started shouting lyrics into the microphone. 

“ _The final era’s coming where we’ll need to rise up  
_ _No more saying no ‘cause they say we ain’t good enough  
_ _We’re the revolution, we’re the fucking answer  
_ _Get ready generations,  
_ _We’re the millennial masters_ ”

Steve had heard the song far too many times for his liking, but he still found himself humming along, regardless.

“ _Moms and Dads, work and school  
_ _None of them have a fucking clue  
_ _We’re the next in line  
_ _We’re reaching our time  
_ _So you better step aside  
_ _We’re gonna rock the fucking world  
_ _We ain’t taking it in stride  
_ _We’re just plain old taking it  
_ _Kiss your morals goodbye_ ”

When Tony started shouting, “Where’s my ladies? Ladieeees, this verse is for you ladies!” The crowd somehow got louder and a bra was launched on stage.

“ _Girl c’mon over it’s alright_  
_We’re only getting tipsy tonight_  
_We got a fight in the morning_  
_Won’t have any warning_  
_But girl come behind closed doors_  
_Say the word and I’m yours  
_ _The world can wait another fucking day_

_Girl c’mon over it’s alright  
_ _We’re only getting tipsy tonight  
_ _We got a fight in the morning  
_ _Won’t have any warning  
_ _But girl come behind closed doors  
_ _Say the word and I’m yours  
_ _The world can wait  
_ _The world can wait  
_ _The world can wait  
_ _One day more_ ”

And then the song was over. He introduced each member of his band before taking a final bow, shouting, “Goodnight, everybody!” and dropping the mic. When he got off stage, he took a towel, wiped the sweat from his forehead and threw it on the ground.

“Steve. Come with me,” he ordered. Steve, not knowing what else to do, followed Tony out to a balcony. When they got out there, Tony lit a cigarette and looked down at the people flooding out of the stadium.

“This is my favorite part,” Tony admitted. “Watching all of them. Knowing they had a good time.” He let out a plume of smoke. “It reminds me why I do this.”

Steve wasn’t sure how to react. Why was Tony telling him this? It was so out of character from the Tony Stark he knew that he wasn’t sure how to handle it. So, he did what he always did. Brought his camera up and snapped a picture.

“You can’t post that,” Tony said. “Not as a candid.”

“I know.” Steve’s heart started pounding. How was he going to tell Tony that he’d taken the picture for himself? “I just thought it was a nice shot.”

They stood in silence, leaning on the railing of the balcony, watching as thousands of people continued to leave. When the flood turned to more of a trickle and Tony had finished his second cigarette, he turned to Steve.

“Let’s do something.”

“Like what?”

Tony shrugged. “I don’t know. I kind of want a drink.”

“You want to get a drink with me?” Steve clarified.

“Yeah. That could be fun. You do… drinking won’t kill you, right?”

“What? No.”

Tony’s mouth quirked up in the corner. “Just making sure.”

Steve wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but he followed Tony through one of the dozen backstage doors and they got on Tony’s bike. It hummed to life between their legs and then they were off.

* * *

“Woooo, look at you go!” Tony shouted as Steve downed the shot.

“I’m not a total prude. I used to party in college. A lot.”

“Then what happened?”

“I grew up.”

“Well then grow back down. We’re playing Two Truths and a Lie.”

Steve grinned. “Traditional rules?”

“One tells two truth and a lie, obviously. The other has to guess which is the lie. If they get it right, the liar has to do a shot. If they guess wrong, the guesser does a shot.”

“I know how to play.”

The pair ordered the strongest bottle of tequila the bar had and Tony poured them each a shot, which they both took before the start of the game. “Ladies first,” he joked and Steve frowned.

“Okay. I once blacked out in college and ended up passed out under the desk in my professors office. I can’t function if I don’t take a shit when I first wake up. I often turn my underwear inside out so I can get an extra day out of them.”

Tony cackled. “That first one has _got_ to be the lie.”

“Incorrect.” Steve handed Tony his shot. “Drink up.”

“Which one was the lie?” Tony slammed the now empty shot-glass on the table.

“The middle one. But it’s only a partial lie. I can’t function if I don’t pee right when I wake up.”

“What do you do about morning wood?”

“It’s not easy. Now, your turn.”

Tony cracked his neck and looked at Steve. “I didn’t lose my virginity until I was twenty-one. I’m terrified of ghosts and hired a ghost whisperer to go through my house before I bought it. I have a collection of underwear, a pair from each woman I’ve slept with.”

“The last one. The underwear. That’s the lie.”

“Impressive.” Tony tossed back the shot. “I was sure I’d get you with that first one. Anyway, your turn.”

“My friend Natasha used to make me do ballet with her. Bucky, my best friend who owns the store, and I used to give each other hand-jobs while wearing blindfolds when we were younger. I used to want to me a manicurist and own a nail salon.”

“I pray to god it’s the middle one because that’s just downright sad.”

Steve laughed and poured himself a shot. “Correct.”

“Okay, okay. My turn. here we go. I started drinking regularly in middle school. My first tattoo was my mom’s name on my wrist when I was fourteen, but my dad said he’d disown me if I didn’t get it covered up. My dick is pierced.”

“First one.”

“Nope. Last one. Shots shots shots shots,” Tony sang, pouring Steve his drink.

“I havn’t had tequila since college. I went back to Haig’s looking for you every week for like a _whole year_.” Steve clamped his hands down on Tony’s shoulders. “I used to want to me a manicurist an own a nail salon.”

Tony swallowed. “You already said that last one.

“I did? Sorry. Uh… I like to watch TV naked.”

“The one about me.”

“Noooooooope. Drink up!”

After Tony took the shot, he gave Steve a look. “You’re drunk, Steve. I think we should stop.”

“One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor.” Steve cackled, then calmed himself. “Tony, I swear I’m fine. It’s an act. I can handle my liquor.”

“I feel like I underestimated you.”

Steve smirked. “You most definitely did. And, okay, I’m starting to feel it but I’m _fine._ Your turn.”

“Fine. Fair’s fair. I thought about you a lot since that night in Haig’s. You annoy me to no end but I still can’t get enough of you. I think you’re one of the most interesting and attractive people I’ve ever met.”

“Psssh. All lies.”

“No lies,” Tony whispered.

“You’re not playing the game right.”

Tony was leaning in, inching closer. “Just tell me if you want me to stop.” Without a second thought, Steve opened his mouth just enough and surged forward, slipping his tongue into Tony’s mouth in a filthy kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave comments. I need them to survive.


End file.
